You walk


You walk



the branches.


You put Sunday in your

pocket. Unlike you, I am not

destined for immeasurable acts.


I speak to the stones, to someone like you,

looking up your stairway, into your hallway

of a holy place.


You move to the rooftop,

eyeing the crowd with a distant tear.


I would hold my hands out to you but

your love is criminal, is metal slowly

burning through the streets, congesting

the autumn air.


Why do you devour me

into your sweet, immaculate hell?


You circle me and circle my door with your

smiles and waves

of irresponsible feigned devotion.


I am too soft for such deception.

I am no rock, no easy rider.


Your lies like your beauty

live in me, aimlessly






Copyright © 1995 by Allison Grayhurst



Published in “Synchronized Chaos” June 2018



You can listen to the poem by clicking below:



One response to “You walk

  1. i once held sunday
    in my pocket,
    or perhaps
    it held me,
    fondled book,
    like sinful prophet,
    dreamt of
    but whispered joys
    –promised by better days–


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